


Give sorrow words

by shealwaysreads (onereader)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comfort, Drabble, Drarry Discord Writers Corner Drabble Challenge, Funeral, M/M, Melancholy, No MCD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22910323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/shealwaysreads
Summary: “Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.”Shakespeare, Macbeh
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 20
Kudos: 105





	Give sorrow words

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Drarry Discord Drabble challenge - this month's prompt was 'You came' and the word limit was 317.
> 
> See end notes for detail on who's funeral it is in case you need to check for squick/trigger warnings ❤️

February was cold and grey, the sky flat and heavy above him. Snow still lay; crisp and smooth across the grass, crumbling and soil-stained along the paths leading him to the private cemetery ahead.

Harry passed through an intricate cast-iron gate that wavered into smokey trails of magic as he moved close. Yew hedges corralled graves of white marble, dark slate, milky quartz. 

Harry paused at the back of the collected mourners, an intruding outsider. Watched sombre faces under a sombre sky, dark robes and veils over quietly weeping faces, footprints in crushed ice, exposed grass beneath. And Malfoy himself. As stark and pale as the snow.

They don’t make eye contact. Harry doesn’t think Malfoy sees _anyone_ right now. His eyes are as dull as so much heavy lead, his mouth is pale and immobile, his hands are still. 

He isn’t crying. 

But Harry is familiar enough with grief to see its shadow in every angle of Malfoy’s body, to see the clawed grip of it in every beat of the pulse at his throat, the silent scream of it in every exhalation floating, visible, in the freezing air.

People speak; an old crone, a French wizard with elegant robes, and Malfoy, too—unsurprisingly eloquent even in his loss. 

There are enchantments, unfamiliar spells unique to the family, elegant lines carved into pristine stone, and then white daffodils bloom through the snow. Harry stands, watching delicate trumpets nod as the crowd drifts away, thinking of the lilies he brings to Godric’s Hollow every year on his mother’s birthday. 

Shiny black boots crunch towards him, and he raises his eyes to meet the tired gaze Malfoy levels at him. This close, Harry can see the way his silvery eyelashes are clinging together, stuck with dried tears. He can see the way the cold has pinched his ears, his nose, his fingertips into a painful pink. Can feel the weight of his presence here, now.

“You came.”

Malfoy reaches a hand out, and Harry takes it, cradles pale and cold and trembling fingers in his own warm clasp.

“You asked me to.”

**Author's Note:**

> It is Narcissa's funeral.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, I'd love to hear your thoughts! And come and say hello on[Tumblr!](https://shealwaysreads.tumblr.com/) ❤️


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